


a long fucking day

by orphan_account



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Edging, Masturbation, Pining, Porn Watching, Porn With Plot, Sexual Fantasy, a lil bit, anyway, implied joyce/hopper, kind of ? i have no idea this wasn't supposed to be porn but all of a sudden, over thinking and then masturbating, shower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 20:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8224316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: hopper considers the last weeks and months of his life, has some beer, puts on porn, and masturbates in the shower. that's all folks.





	

**Author's Note:**

> do not ask me what this is bc i don't know. once second it was angst and the next hopper was furiously jerkin it in the shower. i don't know i'm so sorry also if you're david harbour do not read this i will die i'm already dying

_It’s been a long fucking day._

Another long fucking day in a long fucking week in a long fucking month. Yeah, everything was starting to settle. Joyce had her son back, the media storm was finally losing interest, days were pulling back into their same old tired small-town lull. It didn’t make it any easier. He hadn’t had more than a few hour’s sleep since their journey into the Upside-Down.

It was wearing him down. The bags under his eyes, the startled jumps whenever anyone caught him without his full attention. You don’t just come back from living nightmares.

And God, it’d been another long fucking day.

He walked in the door and tossed the keys on the table, barely hearing them slide over the wood and land with a jangle against the tiled floor. His hat discarded to the floor. He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, pulling it away and laying it carelessly over the back of the armchair in the living room. The house had never looked worse. Cans and littered every available surface, not to mention the prescription bottles that seemed to be piling up even faster than usual. Right on cue, he took his newest bottle and popped a pill, washing it down with an old beer. He didn’t even taste it.

He pulled his belt from its loops and put it on the table, taking his gun from its place at his side and examining it for just a little too long. Some days, it felt so tempting. So easy. Those thoughts were like riding a bike: dusty and in the back of the old garage, but always faithful. Always ready for another spin.

He tried to shake the idea. _She wouldn’t want this,_ he reminds himself, remembering his daughter’s eyes. How she was so young and somehow understood so much more than he did. How she appreciated every moment she had on the earth, even in her sickness. How could he be so ungrateful?

The Upside-Down had taught him enough, he felt, to last a few lifetimes. About parenthood, about survival, about a woman who would do anything, truly anything, for her children. He’d forgotten that feeling a long time ago. He’d wanted it to stay that way. But something in him couldn’t tell Joyce no. Maybe, if he saved her son, it could make up for him not saving his daughter. He always seemed to be too late, always one step behind, always trying to catch up.

He switched on the TV and saw a family eating dinner. Sitcom. Funny. Everyone’s happy. He switched the TV back off with a little too much pressure on the button and walked to the kitchen. Beer in the fridge. He popped a microwave dinner in for a few minutes and downed a beer in the meantime. He was too sober to be thinking so much.

“Shitty food,” he grumbled to himself, walking out to the deck where he gulped down another beer while eating his rubbery mac n’ cheese and chicken fingers. December was closing in fast, and soon it’d be cold as shit on top of being dark and generally depressing. The small sliver of common sense in the back of his mind kept telling him, just go see a shrink. Just _talk_ about it. But he couldn’t, and he wouldn’t. The winters were always hardest.

He tossed the plastic container of his dinner into the too-full trashcan and reached for another beer. He was already feeling buzzed, having not eaten all day prior to the microwave dinner. Long fucking day.

He hadn’t seen Joyce since the hospital. He figured she needed some space, some time to get re-acclimated with her child and recover from the stress of everything they’d been through. And plus, he was sure his company wasn’t something she particularly wanted around when she didn’t need a cop. He wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine.

He knew deep down, that same sliver of common sense, that he was just making up excuses. He could see her if he wanted to. He could stop by. He could go into the general store instead of the market. He could make up some excuse to call. He _wanted_ to, but he couldn’t. And he wouldn’t.

He was jealous.

He’d seen much of himself in Joyce in those few days. He saw his own grief, reflected, magnified, set aflame and burning hotter than he’d ever felt inside himself. He saw the same dark come over her. The difference was, she didn’t get lost in it. She didn’t let it stop her. And she did something about it. She, or they, he supposed, saved her son. It made him feel useless to himself. Helpless. Jealous.

He let out a long, frustrated sigh. He was disgusted with himself for it. _Jealous._ He’d been a lot of things in his life, but that might have been the worst. He felt dirty. Guilty. Every time he replayed that boy gasping for breath, he remembered first the rush of relief, then the tears for Joyce. Then the tears for Sarah.

He didn’t know what to say to Joyce. He’d never tell her. He’d never admit that he was feeling any of this, or even that he was thinking of her as much as he was. But God, it’d been a long fucking day and she was on his mind as usual. You can’t just go through something like that with someone and come out the same on the other side. He wondered if she had nightmares too. He wondered if she’d been eating. If she was getting on okay. He looked at the clock, and then the phone. It was too late to call now. She’d be in bed. The phone ringing at this time of night would only stress her out. She didn’t need that. She didn’t want him bothering her now.

He ran a hand over his face, then finished his third beer. Joyce, he thought. Joyce. He rolled the name around his mind, turning, cycling through what the name meant. An old friend. A new friend. He knew he couldn’t make her come around, but God, he wished he could. There was something more about her that he couldn’t place. Her steadfastness, or the way that she discarded the opinions of anyone who doubted her. He felt like he was always under the magnifying glass, or the scrutiny of the small town. Everyone was watching his every move. Everyone was waiting to see what he would do without his daughter. He’d lied and lied, said that she was still alive and living with her mother in the city, but everyone knew that wasn’t true. He tried to ignore the sad looks and sympathetic stares. The first month in town, he felt like he’d gone home and cried every night.

He was so tired of being… himself. The strong act was a lot to keep up. The wit, the smile, the diplomacy of being chief, knowing everyone in town, visiting the diner, the coffee shop, the market, greeting, talking… He couldn’t keep it up. He used to take to lovers for that very reason. Maybe, in some way, he could be more vulnerable with a woman, especially in bed. But soon, that grew into the act too. Stand the right way, talk the right way, fuck the right way. Don’t call her back. He couldn’t afford to open up to someone who might not… care.

Joyce was different and he knew it. Always giving all of her quiet attention. Staring with those big piercing eyes like she already knew the stories coming out of his mouth. It’d been a long fucking few weeks without her and he was starting to feel it. He missed her. He hated himself for it, but he missed her. Everything was almost going back to normal, at least in the ways it could, and he almost didn’t want it to.

He thought about her eyes for a long time, leaning against the wall. The way they lit up in the rainbow glow of all those damn lights in her living room. The way they welled with tears too often. Tired and sincere, just like she had always been. Same with her smile. Worn-in, like a good pair of jeans. Wrinkles around her lips, from a mismatched amount of frowns and smiles, but still there, nonetheless.

And she always looked…good. He’d caught himself staring more times than he wanted to admit.

He shook his head, wiping his hand a little harder over his face this time. He was trying so hard not to slip into the thoughts that he wanted to so badly. She was so beautiful. He couldn’t lie to himself. But he really didn’t need to be dwelling on sexual thoughts at the end of a long day. It was something he was opting to avoid.

But it’d been weeks since he’d gotten laid, which, for recent standards, was pretty long for him. He wasn’t bad looking. He was good enough with his mouth, at the bar and in the bedroom. It got him around when he wanted it to. But he hadn’t slept with someone since the madness all started with the Byers’, and since then he hadn’t really wanted to. At least, not with the girls from the bar. He didn’t have the energy or the will for the whole song and dance of it all. He just needed a distraction.

A fourth beer found its way into his hand and he slumped onto the couch, mustering up himself to turn the TV back on. He flipped the channels absentmindedly until he decided there was nothing on that was worth watching. He hit the button for the VHS, wondering what movie he had left in there.

His brows crept up his forehead as breasts filled the screen at once. Porn. Right. He’d forgotten. Probably drunk.

He sipped his beer in defeat. Nothing better to do than this, he supposed.

He watched as the woman removed her bra slowly, revealing a set of very fake breasts. He ran his tongue over his teeth. There was something always off putting about this one, but it got the job done. He unbuttoned his trousers and took himself, already half-hard, into his palm. It felt good to relax for once. He hadn’t had any quality alone time in days.

He watched the screen in front of him, focused on the actress’s lips and how they wrapped around the cock in front of her. He began to stroke himself, picturing that mouth. Any mouth. Remembering the last time someone had been over and tipsy and sucking his cock like that. Her head bobbed and her hand moved up and down in rhythm together. He licked his lips, then let his mouth fall open slightly, entranced by her mouth and by the way that she was sucking just the right way. The actor on the screen was moaning.

He closed his eyes languidly, head falling back to the couch cushions. He wet the pad of this thumb with his tongue and rubbed it over the tip, teasing lightly, trying to focus on his pleasure. The small, light touches were what got him hardest. He loved to be teased. And even more so, he loved to be told no. He gripped himself by the base with one hand and rubbed the head with the other, making slow, slow circles. He shivered.

When he opened his eyes, the actress was taking the cock deep and hard. The sight sent an electric burst of arousal and excitement through his body. It felt good. It felt exciting to be thrilled like that, even if it was just for a second. He wanted more. He pumped himself harder, watching with his mouth agape as precum dripped down the side of the head. “Fuck,” he growled, looking from his erection to the screen, then back to himself. He didn’t want to do it like this.

He stood up and turned the TV off, his cock standing at full attention from his unzipped pants. He walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Stroking himself, he waited for the water to get hot enough to get in. He stripped himself of his remaining clothes and stood naked in the bathroom, cock in his hand, throbbing and wanting release. Part of him wanted to give it to himself.

Part of him…wanted to be told no.

He stepped into the shower and let the hot water relax his muscles. A long fucking day called for a long fucking shower, right? The water dripped down his shoulders and over his chest and belly. He returned his focus to his cock, still swollen and wanting release. He rubbed himself slowly, taking extra time to make sure he was teasing every inch. He remembered the last time he’d fucked someone in the shower- he’d had her up against the wall, spread her legs with one hand, took her from behind. Pressed himself to her back so she was caught between him and the tiles. She came so hard her legs shook.

What he wouldn’t give for pussy right now.

He pumped harder, nearing the edge of his orgasm quickly. He bit his bottom lip. He was trying to go slower but it was so hard to control himself. “No,” he moaned, reluctantly pulling his hand away. Rock hard, he hung helplessly there, chest heaving with every labored breath he took. “Fuck. Fuck.”

The last woman he’d slept with was such a tease. He loved it. He wouldn’t admit it because then she’d use it against him even more, but God he loved when she would bring him _right there_ and then pull away before he could cum. It made him squirm and moan. And it made the orgasm that much better when he finally had one. One night in particular, when they had been fucking, she had him right on the edge and she had pulled away, sat him up against the pillows, and rode him reverse cowgirl. “Tell me when you’re gonna cum,” she’d warned, and so he did. “I’m gonna cum—” left his mouth more as a rushed rasp than anything intelligible, but she understood. She pulled right off of him and clutched him by the balls, waiting until the buildup passed before starting over again. It had gone on for what felt like hours. He’d never felt anything so intense.

Just thinking about it made him close in on the edge of orgasm again. The way she’d spread herself and squatted right down on him, taking him deep inside her. He stretched her, filled her to the brim. He wasn’t sure if she’d been lying, but she told him he was one of the bigger ones she’d ever had. He tried not to let it go to his head. He pulled his hand away before he came, sighing aloud to himself, the sound almost becoming a moan. He was sweating underneath the hot water.

“Cum for me,” she’d said as she rode him, harder than before. Without words, he pulled on her arm to turn her around so he could look at her. Or, more specifically, her tits. He came with his face between her breasts, licking and sucking and forgetting that he wasn’t supposed to leave marks. Fuck, she felt good.

He stroked harder, remembering those words, that mouth, the slick hot feeling of her pussy. He needed it. He needed a good fuck more than anything it’d take the edge off, at the very least.

This time, he’d let himself. He heard those words in his head again, echoing. “Cum for me, cum for me.” He felt his legs tense up, the white hot heat coiling from his balls all the way up to the crown of his skull. “Fuck,” he groaned through his gritted teeth, feeling his orgasm so so close. Just a few more strokes…

“Oh fuck, Joyce,” he moaned, head against the wall, cock throbbing in his hand. Thick ropes of cum dripped onto the wall in spurts. It took him a long, ecstasy-filled moment to realize the name he’d called out. He felt himself turning red in the hot water, his orgasm fading and being replaced with mild embarrassment and anger with himself. A lack of control. This was all about control, and he didn’t even have that.

She was always in his head, even when his mind was elsewhere. A sliver of common sense.

He wrapped himself in a towel and walked to the kitchen for another beer.


End file.
